


See

by Lasgalendil



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Captain America: The First Avenger, Color Blind Steve Rogers, M/M, Masturbation, Podfic Welcome, Project Rebirth, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, Super Soldier Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: He has to go. He has to make it to the front. He can’t go on thinking—he can’t stop thinking—the only time he’ll see Buck again is when those blue eyes have closed forever and his skin’s gone cold and grey.





	

Pain. Burning. He’s dying, dying, dying in agony and It feels—

Nothing. He feels nothing. Not the crick of his spine, the snag of ribs against his shirt, the shouted gasps of air against a rasping throat, the ringing in his ears, the cough in in chest, the skip in his heart. It feels—

 _It feels like dying_ , Steve Rogers thinks. _It feels like being born_. And the world is bright. It’s so _vibrant._ There’s colors he’s never even imagined, reflections gleaming off every surface in a shattered spectrum and it’s beautiful, it’s so fucking beautiful but it’s terrifying all at once.

“How do you feel?” Peggy asks him.

“Taller,” he says. How do you explain the absence of pain, the pleasure of color? He couldn’t paint it, much less put it into words.

The world is so bright now. He sees patterns in plaid. The slow shift of the leaves. And he misses his world, the small, tired world he’d once known. He misses Brooklyn and Bucky, and every surreal shade of every strange sunset reminds him how far he is from home.  Buck used to help him match his socks, would shake his head and drag Steve back upstairs to change a shirt or tie. Would help mix the colors with him when Steve did a watercolor, oil painting, or pastel. The world hadn’t been like photographs, not black and white, but it’d been… _duller_ , Steve decides. There were fewer colors. How did you describe purple to a man who has never imagined _red?_ And he wants, oh how he wants to pick up a paintbrush, a pastel, anything, mix those colors again under Buck’s approving eye. He wants to sit in the theater, see the Wizard of Oz, relive that moment Buck grabbed his hand, gasping, that look of sheer joy on his crying face.

 _Blue_ , Steve tells himself, jerking off on the long lonely nights. _His eyes are blue_. Bright like his uniform, clear and dark like the midnight sky, muddled and hazy, like the glow New York City disappearing in the distance, raw like the wild, raging water of a river or sometimes so still and content, the deep, gentling calm of a lake like glass. Steve's seen blue. He's always seen blue. But Buck’s face, his lips, his skin, he doesn’t know what color they are, he’s never seen them. Never seen _him._ His mis-colored memories are still crystal clear, and this strange new world is so vibrant and alien it terrifies him, it fucking _terrifies_ him. He closes his eyes, and sees the world—sees _Buck_ —the way he was, the way they were, and he comes so hard it leaves him sobbing.

He has to go. He has to make it to the front. He can’t go on thinking—he can’t stop thinking—the only time he’ll see Buck again is when those blue eyes have closed forever and his skin’s gone cold and grey.


End file.
